Not Exactly Cooking by the Book
by Dawndragon the Storyteller
Summary: The sight of Flora in the kitchen has long filled hearts with dread. Flora herself is not blind to that fact. So she decides enough is enough. She wants to be able to cook a nice meal without making her family sick or catching something on fire. The Professor vows to help her in this puzzle. Of course, the expected shenanigans ensue. Takes place after UF/LF. (Layton Big Bang 2018!)
1. Chapter 1

As soon as he opened the door to the flat, the Professor was met with an... interesting aroma. It came at him like a punch to the face, so much so that his eyes starting watering from the potency of it.

"Professor, you're home!" came a voice from the kitchen. "Just in time, too. Dinner's nearly ready!"

He set his brief case on the floor next to the door. "Ah, that's wonderful, Flora," he said as cheerfully as he could manage. "Let me wash up and I'll be right there to help set the table."

"Alright, don't take too long, now!" Faint humming could be heard from the kitchen as he walked past to the bathroom. He walked at quickly as possible while being innocuous. As soon as he was in the room fully he hastily closed the door and turned on the vent. Safe for a moment, at least. But he knew that he couldn't stay here for very long at all. A true gentleman didn't avoid his problems, especially when they dealt with people he loved. Sooner or later, he would have to go out and face…

His daughter's cooking.

He washed his hands slowly and carefully, taking meticulous time under the justification of being thorough. As he did, he heard a distant clatter, followed by a faint, "Oh dear." He could only imagine what had happened…

Taking one last breath of unpolluted air, the Professor steeled himself and opened the door, shutting off the light and the vent switches as he left.

"Hello, Professor!" said Flora, smiling him as he entered the kitchen. He returned her smile, but his gaze was drawn to the array of pots and pans and ingredients and- were those garden shears?- lining every flat surface on the counter, and even some that weren't quite flat. Two of the four burners on the stove were on, although only one seemed to have something cooking on it. Flora herself was mixing up some dark, sticky-looking liquid in a bowl that seemed to be trying to be gravy.

"Hello, Flora," he said, returning her smile. "My, it seems you've been hard at work in here."

"Yup! And I think you'll be very happy with dinner tonight!"

"I'm sure-" He cut himself off when he noticed the panel of the smoke alarm was hanging open. "Ah, Flora?"

"What's the matter?"

"Why," he asked leaning in to investigate, "aren't there any batteries in the smoke detector?"

"Oh, that?" she said. "It keeps going off while I'm working in here, and I couldn't figure out how to shut it off. So I just popped out the batteries. I was going to ask you to look at it later."

He spotted the errant batteries about a foot away, sitting on top of the bread box and looking dangerously close to rolling into a used mixing bowl. "I see." He grabbed the batteries and put them in his pocket so he would remember to reinstall them later. While he was there, he also turned off the unused burner on the stove. "You know, Flora," he said, "the smoke alarm is there to detect fires and fumes. It's a crucial safeguard against being hurt."

"Oh, I know all that," she said. "It was just getting annoying. I think this one's overactive, anyway. It's always going off while I'm cooking!"

"There may be a reason for that," he said quietly. She didn't seem to hear. "Well, that's neither here nor there for now. What can I do to help?"

"Just set the table!" she said cheerfully. "We'll need three- oh, wait, no. Two plates, forks, knives, and glasses."

"Alright." He set to work straight away, almost pulling out a third plate before catching himself. It seemed that would still take some getting used to for the both of them.

By the time he had set everything on the table, Flora was bringing out the main dish, a... what was that? It looked like a chicken, but it was practically burnt beyond recognition! And that gravy from earlier seemed haphazardly drizzled over it, although it didn't seem like it would do much to fight how dry it looked.

Flora beamed at him as she set the dish on the table. "I hope you're hungry!" she said. "There's a couple extra servings, partially because I forgot- well, since I'm used to cooking for three on weeknights." Her gaze drifted to the empty chair on the other side of the table. She shook her head as though to bring herself out of whatever train of thought she had gotten caught up in. "Well, anyway, there's plenty for seconds, or even thirds if you want!"

"Ah, yes," the Professor said, returning her smile. "I suppose I may be obligat- er, rather, I may get the chance to. Appetite permitting, of course."

He pulled out her chair for her and then sat down himself, folding his hands politely on the table before him.

"Well?" she said. "Dig in!"

He hesitated, but his smile wavered only for a moment. "Why don't we bless the food, first?" he suggested. This poor bird would certainly need it.

"Oh, of course! I'll say grace for us." She bowed her head and closed her eyes, and he followed suit, glad for the brief delay.

"God is great, God is good, let us thank Him for this food, amen!" Oh. That was shorter than he expected. He looked up at her, and she seemed to sense the unasked question.

"I kept it a bit short, since I knew you had to be really hungry. I know He will understand." She smiled.

"Of course," he said. "Very considerate."

The chicken sat menacingly on the table before them. Flora beamed over it like she would were it her own child. Looks like there would be no more delaying. He cut off a small portion for himself, knowing that the poor thing would have to be put out of its misery one way or another, or at least given an honorable send-off. It would either have to be by his hand or cremation, although, from the looks of it, the latter had already been attempted. The dish of green peas, which looked overly soggy even from a moment's glance, also seemed to be asking for an end to their suffering. At least the rolls were from the bakery.

His plate now filled with the smallest appropriate portion sizes of each, the Professor steeled his nerves and prepared to smile through the entirety of the meal, no matter how difficult that would prove to be. He picked up his fork and took his first bite.

Hm.

"So?" asked Flora eagerly. "How is it?"

The Professor reached for his water glass. "It's… it has a very... smoky flavor to it."

"Oh, yeah. That was a bit of an unintended effect. I was trying to make Tikka Masala, but we didn't have everything in the recipe, so while I was looking for substitutions for the sauce, the chicken cooked just a little longer than it was supposed to. But I think it was a happy accident. After all," she added, sitting a little higher in her chair, "a good chef can improvise in any situation!"

He set down his glass, hoping she wouldn't notice it was nearly half empty. "This is true," he said, nodding slightly. "Proper improvisation is a skill that many train for to… to-" He yearned to reach out for his glass again, but that might seem rude. "Is this ginger I taste?"

Flora grinned. "Yep! I added some extra since it's flu season. Ginger's great for the immune system, you know."

It also eases nausea, fortunately. "It is… certainly strong here."

"Too strong?" she asked gingerly, perhaps now noticing his discomfort, or maybe his hesitation to take another bite.

Oh, how he didn't want to tell her. He considered his next words carefully. "It might be… for some, perhaps. I am certainly grateful for the immune system boost."

"Oh..." she said. She seemed to have noticed his glass. "Yeah. Can't have you getting sick on the job. 'specially with the extra classes you have to teach."

"Precisely," he said in a purposefully more upbeat tone. "That was very thoughtful of you."

"Right. Thank you." She grabbed her fork and prodded around a little at the food on her plate. A lone pea, sitting on the edge of the rest, crumbled under only a minuscule amount of pressure. "So, what do you think of the peas?"

The expression on his face could be compared to a deer in the path of an oncoming train. He hastily set down his water. "Oh, the peas? I hadn't quite gotten to-"

"But they look totally overdone, too, huh?"

"Wait a moment!" he stammered, taken aback. "I wouldn't jump to conclusions just yet, I haven't even tried them. I'm sure they're deli-"

"You don't have to lie to me, you know." Her head was bowed, and her voice wavering. "I know it's awful. It's fine. You can tell me."

"Flora, wait-"

She looked up and met his gaze with eyes that were glazed over with tears. "Professor, please, I know it's terrible. Do you think I can't tell you're just trying to be polite? You don't have to spare my feelings anymore."

"Flora," he said softly, setting his hand on her shoulder, "the last thing I would want is to hurt you. I'm sorry this meal didn't turn out like you wanted to, but there's always tomorrow to-"

"What's the point?" she demanded, brushing his hand away. "It's going to be just the same, I know it. No matter what I try, it always ends up like this."

"Don't be so hard on yourself," the Professor tried. "It isn't always like this."

"Oh, really? Even though you and Luke always found every excuse you could to ditch dinner, over and over?" She sniffed. "At least he's in America now, where he's safe from me and my… my terrible..." She rubbed her eyes, but it was at that moment that the tears came full force.

The Professor moved to her side and wrapped his arms around her. "I'm so sorry, Flora…"

It took a moment for her to form words through the sobs, and even then it was a herculean effort. "Why're you s-sorry, Profe-fessor? You ar-aren't a disa-disappointment like I am."

"Don't say that," he said gently. "Please." He pulled back from the embrace, resting his hands on her shoulders. "Flora, you are not a disappointment in any way. I hope you know that, truly."

"I'm..." she started. She wiped her face in a vain attempt to brush away the tears. "Even with-"

"Even with dinners like these," he reassured her. "Because you're my daughter, and nothing will change how much I care about you." He brushed away a tear with his thumb and smiled softly. In return, a small smile graced her face, and so he went on. "You know, everyone is good at something, and likewise, everyone is not so good at something else. You may just need to find what it is that you're suited for."

Flora sniffled, blinking back against another onslaught of tears. "But that's just it, Professor. I… I want to be good at cooking. It's fun for me when I'm in the middle of it. I'm just..." She sighed. "Sad that you all can't enjoy it with me."

The Professor nodded thoughtfully. He grabbed a napkin off the table and handed it to her to help keep the waterworks at bay.

"Then, Flora, dear, I believe our mission is clear. I will help you learn how to cook properly."

"Really?" she gasped. "Oh, thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!" She threw her arms around him with the speed and force of… well, not a truck. A scooter would be more appropriate for her size, but either way it was enough to catch the poor Professor by surprise. He let out a small gasp, but the surprise wore off quickly. He smiled and hugged her back.

And so it was settled. No matter what it took, Flora would learn to cook.


	2. Chapter 2

The only problem was that the Professor really did not know where to start with teaching Flora the basics of cooking.

Perhaps part of this lay in the fact that this was outside his usual curriculum. He did teach for a living, but he taught facts, information in books, really. On only on occasion did that teaching involve hands-on activities, and that was when his class took their quarterly trip to a dig site. And, in any case, he himself rarely prepared any meal more complicated than soup from a can since his schedule was always so thoroughly packed. It was much easier to eat out or stop at that little deli near the university for a quick bite to go.

This was presenting a difficult start to this challenge, and they hadn't even touched the kitchen yet. So it seemed like fate when a solution dropped right on their doorstep, almost literally.

It was a few days after the Tikka Massacre- er, Tikka Masala incident. Flora went to retrieve the mail from the letter box, per usual of the morning. She opened the lid to find the usual assortment of letters, sales papers, advertisement fliers, and magazines all jumbled together. It would be a minor undertaking to sort through it all, so she decided to save that for when she got inside. It was a sizable amount of mail, however, and as she struggled to reach the door handle to get back inside the whole stack slid out of her arms and fell to her feet.

"No! Aghh-" she cried out. And just when she had gotten that silly door open, too. Flora sighed and stooped to pick it all up when the bolded words "Anyone can cook!" caught her eye.

She froze as that registered. Anyone can cook. She reached for the magazine on which this message was plastered. It was a television guide. The full title of that issue, "Anyone Can Cook! Cooking made Easy-Peasy with Rachel Flay as her hit show _Meals Made Easy_ airs its fifth season" was accompanied by a picture of a sweet-looking lady sporting a floral-print apron and a motherly smile. Her heart leaped.

"This is it!" she whispered excitedly, afraid of allowing her voice any more for fear it would turn into a squeal. "Anyone can cook. So that means...!"

She ran back inside, magazine in hand, to show the Professor what she had found. He was in the living room sitting behind an intimidating-looking stack of essays, not even half of them graded, his reading glasses perched precariously on his nose.

"Professor! Professor, look at this!" she said, half throwing it into his hands. He reeled from the shock of the sudden excitement, and it took him a moment to register what was going on.

"What's this, now?" he asked as he took the magazine from her and looked it over. Flora was practically bouncing in place with energy as he examined the cover and then flipped to skim over the article inside. "My, this seems like the perfect solution to our puzzle, doesn't it?"

"Uh-huh!" she agreed. "And to think I thought it was junk mail at first- oh, shoot!"

"What's the matter?"

"I forgot to pick up the rest of the mail!"

The magazine also included that week's television schedule, so they looked ahead for the next episode of _Meals Made Easy_ and picked up the ingredients needed for that episode's recipe. The Professor even moved their little television to sit on a table in the kitchen so Flora could follow along, per suggestion from the magazine article on the show. He had also cleared his schedule to be there to supervise and help as needed.

The afternoon was set. And so, at precisely 3:30 when the program began, they were ready.

"Hello, everybody, and thanks for tuning in to _Meals Made Easy!_ I'm Rachel Flay, don't ya know, and today we're gonna be fixing up a nice little lamb roast. And don't you worry, dears, this is simple enough for all my little kiddos to follow along!"

Flora giggled at this, and even the Professor was smiling. It seemed the host's cheery personality was absolutely contagious.

They began, and for a long time all was going perfectly well.

The phone rang.

Flora looked to the Professor, who merely smiled and waved it off. "We'll let it go for now," he told her. "If it's important, I'm sure they will call back soon."

Sure enough, a minute later, the phone began to ring again.

"Should you answer it now, Professor?" Flora asked, looking up from the potatoes she was slicing. Her elbow bumped one of the whole, uncut potatoes, and the Professor had to grab it quickly before it rolled off the counter.

"No," he said, setting the unruly spud back on the counter. "I set aside this afternoon to support you, and it wouldn't be fair to you for me to go back on that. What kind of gentleman would I be if-"

The phone rang again.

"...and while we're waiting for our water to boil, we'll take a quick break for our sponsors," said Rachel Flay. "Don't go far, dears!"

The Professor sighed. "Alright, since it's on break, I'll see if I can answer it quickly. Be careful putting those potatoes in the water!"

"I will!" she assured him. "Go ahead, I'll be fine!"

The Professor ducked out of the room to catch the caller while he could, and Flora finished slicing up the last few potatoes. She went to move them closer to the now bubbling pot of water, but as she did, she knocked the TV remote off the counter.

"Oh, darn it!" She bent down to pick up the remote. "What is with this-?"

"- _X-treme Cuisine_ _with Rachel Flay!_ " screamed the television. Flora jumped and scrambled to find the volume control, nearly dropping the remote again in the process.

"Back already?" she gasped. "Professor! It's started again!"

"Just a moment, I'll be right there!"

Flora looked back to the television. Rachel Flay was indeed back but… something seemed different. Her bobbed brown hair was perhaps a little messier. Her eyes held a fiery energy, and- was that eyeliner? And face paint?

Besides that, the setting was entirely different. The camera tracked around to show a very large, almost arena-like setting filled with various cooking stations. Where before the commercial break the kitchen had been bright and colorful, now it was darker, the blue and black setting illuminated by harsher white lights. Several other cooks were rushing around from station to station, but it mainly looked like the focus was on one particular chef in red and then Rachel Flay herself.

"Time to take this kiddo to school," she growled into the camera. "Buckle up! This little lamb is taking the fast lane back to Mary, because I cook to win, don't ya know!"

Flora gulped. "The second half of this episode is really intense!" She thought of what the hostess had said at the beginning of the episode. _Simple enough for all my kiddos to follow along!_ Flora wondered if she really was that much of a novice to be lost already.

"I'm not giving up yet," she decided firmly. She gritted her teeth and kept going.

Knives flashed at the speed of light across the screen, and whole onions and carrots were turned into tiny cubes in an instant. Flora scrambled to even find said veggies in time to include them before the chefs moved on, much less cut them up at all. Whole containers of spices were thrown onto the counter and shaken into a bowl without even a mention of proportions. It would have taken too long to discern what and how much went into the bowl, so Flora just grabbed the first five spices that she saw out of the pantry and poured what she hoped was an even amount of each.

Meanwhile, Rachel Flay had already moved on, rapidly cracking eggs into a bowl and whisking them together with furious energy. After frantically pulling out another bowl, Flora cracked eggs into it as quick as she could in order to keep up, getting broken bits of shell into the mix in the process. She wanted to pick them out, but Rachel was moving on once again, this time grabbing a skillet and cranking the burner on the stove to full blast. Egg yolk still covering her hands, Flora moved to follow her, pausing briefly to wipe her hands on her skirt.

"There's no _wining_ in my kitchen, kiddos!" roared Rachel as she poured a bottle of alcohol into the skillet of diced veggies. The entire thing burst into flames, but Rachel held onto the skillet fearlessly and even flipped its contents over and over, which seemed to enrage the angry bluish flames on screen.

Flora gulped. "Professor! I think I'm gonna need some help in here!"

No response. She ran to go look for him, but stopped just short of the doorway of the kitchen. She was an aspiring chef, wasn't she? So she shouldn't be shying away from this challenge. A good cook rises to the challenge.

She found a frying pan, eyeing the television to see how far behind she was. Ms. Flay was flipping the seared carrot and onion mixture out of the pan and on to a plate. There was little time for Flora to waste. She pulled out a kitchen chair and retrieved the almost untouched bottle of wine that the Professor kept for company from the top cupboard.

"Here goes nothing," she said, mustering all the confidence she could and poured the wine over the haphazardly diced carrots and onions.

Thank goodness the Professor remembered to put the batteries into the fire alarm.

That gave him the reason he needed to escape the phone call with the university's dean, which he had been trying unsuccessfully to do for the past ten minutes. He almost threw the phone down and dashed up the hall. And when he got there, he found the kitchen on fire.

Well, not the entire kitchen. But there were certainly flames around the stove. And Flora stood frozen before the fire, unable to force herself to react in any way.

It took well over an hour to console Flora once the situation was dealt with.

"It's okay," he told for the hundredth time, although, truly, he would say it a hundred more if it would help ease her mind. "This is exactly why we keep fire extinguishers in the house. And, honestly, whoever thought it would be a good idea to run those two programs only one channel apart-"

"But anyone should have been able to notice that it wasn't the same show!" she cried. "And I just kept following along like a-"

"Don't. Please, don't down yourself for this. Accidents happen, Flora. This is a learning experience. And..." He sighed and tugged on the brim of his hat in shame. "...I blame myself for not being there, for allowing myself to be pulled away even for a brief moment."

Flora set a hand on his arm reassuringly. "Professor, if I'm not allowed to feel bad about this, then neither are you." She smiled up at him, and he returned it.

"Here's an idea," he said after a moment. "Why don't we go out for dinner tonight?"

"Sounds perfect! I don't even want to look at another kitchen tonight."

Perhaps this was fate at work. On the way home that evening, a poster on the side of the road caught Flora's eye. She ran over to investigate.

"Hey, look at this!" she exclaimed. The Professor caught up and read over her shoulder.

"Hm. 'Cooking lessons with Pro Chef, Jean Dupain.' Right here in London, too," the Professor remarked. He smiled thoughtfully. "Flora, I believe we may have found the solution. The right one, this time."


	3. Chapter 3

That following Monday morning, Flora stood outside the door of the room in which that afternoon's class was to be held. It happened to be on the campus of a smaller community college nearby, so the Professor had dropped her off on his way to his own university. And now, a quarter til eleven, Flora was feeling like a small pond fish who had been dropped into an ocean.

All around her were people, standing almost shoulder-to-shoulder in that narrow hallway. Even just looking at the feet of the crowd, the diversity was evident, with a healthy mix of Converse and loafers and sandals and high heels and so on. Flora wouldn't know about their faces or the rest of their dress because she could only focus on the floor in front of her. She dared not look up, or else she would have to face the discerning looks that were no doubt being thrown her way. She could practically hear, 'Are you lost, miss?'

"Hey, are you lost?"

Flora jumped as she felt a hand on her shoulder. She whirled around to see the freckled face of another girl facing her.

"Whoa, take it easy!" The girl smiled nonchalantly. "Wasn't trying to scare you."

"Sorry," said Flora sheepishly. "I guess I'm just nervous."

The girl shrugged. "Don't worry about it. You're here for the class, too, right?"

Relief surged through Flora, and her shoulders relaxed instantly, releasing tension she didn't even know she was holding on to. "Yes, I am! I thought I was the only one here who wasn't an adult."

"All the more reason for us to stick together. I'm Ivy, by the way."

"I'm Flora." A moment after she said this, Ivy laughed.

"Two nature names. Both plants, even! I guess it's meant to be that we found each other, huh?"

Flora giggled. "Ivy and Flora. It almost seems too good to be true!"

Ivy nodded, reaching into her pocket. "Gum?"

"Hm? Oh, no thank you."

Ivy raised an eyebrow as she popped a piece into her mouth. "You sure?"

Flora nodded, her usual energy constantly returning. "Oh, I'm much too excited, now. I'm afraid I'd swallow it!"

An unrecognizable look crossed Ivy's face. "Excited?"

"Of course! I'm excited for the class! And now I'm as nervous since I'm not alone anymore."

"So… you weren't just forced into this class by your parents, too?"

Flora shook her head. "No, I'm the one who wanted to sign up. This is a great opportunity to learn from such a great chef."

"Ah." The pause that followed was perhaps a little too long to be comfortable. "I see."

Before another long pause could ensue, the door to the classroom opened and the crowd around them began to filter in. Flora followed the people ahead of her, glancing back at Ivy when she could spare her attention. She was close behind, seemingly focused on just moving along.

The room was very wide, with rows of symmetrical cooking stations with a stove, counter, sink, and oven each, as well as various appliances and utensils.

"Welcome, everyone," Chef Dupain said from the front. "Two to a cooking station, please. There should be enough for everyone."

Behind the bulk of the crowd, Flora managed to find an open station, but it was towards the back. She took a moment to familiarize herself with where everything was situated, and as she did, she noticed someone move in next to her to join her. It was Ivy, who was holding a whisk and grinning.

"Hey, Flora," she said, "do you think this class is going to be _whisky?"_

Flora giggled. "That's a good one!"

Ivy's grin widened, setting the whisk down on the counter. "I'm glad you thought that pun was in good _taste_."

Another laugh from Flora followed. "Very funny." She picked up the wayward whisk and put it back in its place among the other utensils.

"Good morning," said Chef Dupain. The light chatter that was going on around the room died out as he began the class. "Today we will start with-"

"Oh, Flora," whispered Ivy in a suddenly serious tone.

"Hm?" she replied absently.

"Did you hear about that one Italian chef last week?"

Flora's eyes widened in surprise. She turned her head towards Ivy.

"No, I didn't! What happened?"

"He..." Ivy's neutral expression morphed into a Cheshire grin. "... _pasta_ way."

The surprise and concern melted away. "Oh. Ha, ha." Flora rolled her eyes and looked back towards the front of the classroom.

"Hey," whispered Ivy once again. At first, Flora ignored her, being far too intent on soaking up every word the master chef said. Her partner was persistent.

"Hey, Flora."

Flora waved her off, as he chef was giving instructions about the preparations for the dish they would be making, a kind of pasta with a tomato and herb sauce. People around them were pulling out bowls and ingredients from the storage space under the counters, and Flora followed along.

"Flora-"

"What?" Flora hissed, dropping a bag of flour onto the counter with a noticeable _thump._

Ivy was holding the bowl that Flora was supposed to be mixing ingredients into. "I just wanted to say that you're adora- _bowl_."

"Very funny. But could you please give that back? I really need it."

Ivy set it back down on the counter nonchalantly. "No problem, boblem."

"Thank you." Flora set back to work, settling back into the pace of the rest of the group fairly quickly. She measured in the proper amounts of oil, flour and salt, and then cracked three eggs into the mix one by one, carefully observing and replicating Chef Dupain's technique. This time, no pieces of shell found their way into the bowl. This was certainly cause for celebration, but she couldn't truly enjoy the moment.

" _Egg_ -cellent job, Flora!" Ivy quipped. Flora only glared in return. Ivy sighed. "Gosh, it's like walking on eggshells with you."

"Ivy, please," she whispered, hoping that none of the others in the class noticed them. Fortunately, everyone seemed intent on mixing and kneading their pasta dough. "I'm trying to pay attention. You're really distracting me."

"So what you're saying is that I _knead_ to stop?"

"...yes."

Ivy moved a few feet away, further down the station. Right next to-

"I have a _sinking_ feeling that you don't think my jokes are funny anymore."

 _A lady does not cause a scene. A lady does not cause a scene._ _A lady does not-_

It took everything Flora had in her to remain composed. Somehow, she managed to ignore her partner snickering at her own joke and refocus on the chef's instructions. Not too far behind, she mixed and kneaded the dough and set it aside to rest. Her partner did nothing but stand there and smile, the only idle person in the class. This was decidedly better than the constant puns, but Flora had a feeling that she hadn't seen the end of the mischief.

"...and cut the tomatoes like this. Be careful to keep your fingers back so you don't injure yourself. In case you do, immediately stop and-"

"That would not be very _knife_ , huh, Flora?"

"Ivy. Seriously."

"Hey, now," she said mischievously, her voice no longer quite a whisper. "No need to be _sharp_ with me."

"Stop-"

"Excuse you, two young ladies in the back," said Chef Dupain, interrupting his lesson. "You're disturbing the lesson. Please quiet down, or else I'll have to ask you to leave."

Flora's face flushed as red as the half-sliced tomato on her cutting board.

"I'm sorry!" she squeaked, ducking her head and stepping away from Ivy. She was acutely aware of every eye that was upon her.

The chef cleared his throat and continued like nothing had happened.

Her face burning, her stomach churning, Flora meekly continued, trying to work diligently as though to say, 'It wasn't me, it was her!' A quick glance to her left revealed that Ivy did not seem the least bit embarrassed or bothered. She seemed quiet, though. As though she were plotting something…

"Now that the dough has settled for ten minutes," continued Chef Dupain, "we can form the pasta."

Flora reached for the dough, but as she did, she noticed giggling off to the side. Oh, no. Not this again. If she heard one more joke-

"Y'know-"

"Shh."

"Oh, come on, at _yeast_ give me a chance."

"If I'm kicked out of this class because of you-"

"I'm not _Alfredo_ you, Flora."

Flora took a deep breath to steady herself.

"Please," she whispered, "Just leave me alone. I really want to be here."

Ivy looked at her for a long time. Then she shrugged. "Alright, whatever you want."

"Thank you," Flora sighed. "You have no idea how much this means to me."

Ivy shook her head. "It's fine. I don't really care."

Flora jumped back to the task at hand, taking the dough in her hands and shaping it as instructed. It was almost therapeutic, actually. Now that she knew what she was doing and wasn't worried about burning down the kitchen, it was very enjoyable. Fun even. Flora found herself humming as she worked.

"You're actually pretty smart, taking a class like this," Ivy comment idly.

Flora looked up at her. "Really?" She smiled at the compliment.

"Yeah. I mean-" There was a glint in the girl's eye. "-chefs really make a lot of _dough_."

Flora bit her lip. "I thought you said-"

"Yeah, I know. But I had been _noodling_ that one for a while."

Camel's back, meet straw.

The Professor got a phone call that morning only a short while into his first lesson. It was from Flora, in tears, asking him to come pick her up from the class.

"Did you finish early?" he asked. "Or was it shorter than it was listed?"

"No. I…" she sniffed. "...I got kicked out."

"What-!?"

"Long story. Just... please-"

"I'll be right there."

Fortunately, his own class did not mind being released early. Unfortunately, it began to rain while he was en route. By the time he made his way through the ensuing traffic and found Flora, she was soaking wet and sobbing uncontrollably, only able to take shelter under a very narrow awning which did virtually nothing to protect her against the weather. He took of his coat and draped it over her shoulders as he helped her to the car.

"Are you alright, Flora?" he asked, but she was silent, still shaking even when they were both in the safety of the Laytonmobile. The Professor switched on the heat and started the drive home.

The light ahead of them turned red. As the Professor slowed the car to a stop, Flora spoke in a quiet voice.

"I guess I'm not supposed to cook after all."

"Why would you say that?" asked the Professor. When she hesitated, he tried again, more gently. "What happened?"

She sighed. "Another girl got me kicked out of the class. I was trying really hard to pay attention, Professor! I really was. But… I couldn't control… I got mad at her for distracting me when she knew I was trying to pay attention. And I snapped at her in front of the whole… the whole..." She paused to try and stop herself from crying as she spoke, but her voice still returned very hoarse. "I messed it all up again!"

"You didn't," insisted the Professor. "Things like this happen to everyone. Please, don't give up. I'm sure if I spoke to the instructor and told him what a bright and thoughtful young lady you are, he would understand and let you return-"

"Forget it," Flora grumbled. "I'm not going back."

"Flora-"

"I don't want to go back." A tear rolled down her cheek. "I… don't want to learn how to cook. Not anymore."

She was unresponsive for the rest of the car ride home, much to the distress of the Professor. He tried to lift her spirits, but it didn't seem to reach her. As soon as they reached their flat, Flora took a long shower and retreated to her room.

That is where she stayed for the rest of the day. No offer of tea or sweets could even stir her enough for her to come to the door.

The Professor felt so helpless. Seeing her so miserable hurt his heart. He knew he couldn't have prevented this but he still felt like he should have done something. He paced back and forth through the house, quietly of course, so he wouldn't disturb Flora were she asleep by now. The clock on the wall read a quarter til ten.

The telephone on the counter caught his eye. Perhaps it was true that he had done everything he could do to teach her…

But perhaps there was someone else who could help.

He picked up the phone and dialed, hoping that the other party would be awake to answer.


End file.
